


Kasiri

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Ficlet, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 16:12:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5423546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir goes into heat, and Aragorn does his duty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kasiri

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Boromir does something stupid and gets into an aphrodisiac or something, it doesn't really matter, but I want Boromir in a fuck or die sort of situation and Aragorn considering it his responsibility to fix. Bonus points if one or both of them were attracted to the other prior to this situation, but not necessary” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2320.html?thread=4355088#t4355088).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“Bloody Men with their bloody pheromones, waving those things—” Gimli doesn’t exactly cut off when he gets back to camp, just dips into a grumble completely unintelligible. Aragorn looks up all the same, surprised when Gimli only drops a handful of twigs onto the fire. Rather than offer an explanation for the unusually small load, Gimli plops himself down on a rock across from Aragorn and the halflings, huddled in their little cave away from the forest path. 

Aragorn has to ask, “What has he done now?” knowing it has to be Boromir. Gimli harrumphs loud enough to make all his armour creak. 

“Acting like a fool, that’s what,” he mutters through his mustache, while Aragorn tries to make a fire out of what little supplies he’s been given. He gets a spark going easily enough, but it won’t last. “Slobbering all over Legolas like some kind of dog...” Aragorn’s head shoots up instantly, and he doesn’t have to look to know the hobbits must be staring as well.

Before anyone can ask for details, Legolas appears in the mouth of their cave, looking perfectly pristine as ever with his fair hair backlit in the glow of the rising stars. He smiles lightly in greeting and makes his way over, Aragorn instantly getting to his feet to ask, “Are you alright?” The concern must show in his voice, because Legolas frowns. 

“Of course,” he answers, with such ease that Aragorn has to be believe it. 

Gimli jumps in for him, “If I’d thought the elf any less sharp with that bow, I wouldn’t have left.”

Legolas tsks his tongue and looks, of all things, like he’s about to laugh. “Come, now,” he chides, “It was not so bad.” Gimli scowls and clearly disagrees, but Legolas merely shakes his head and insists, “You do not understand, my friend, what it is like to be bound by such cycles. A beta in heat is troubled, especially around an omega.” As he says it, he comes to sit down on the earth next to Gimli, far closer than an omega should to another, if it weren’t that dwarves seem to have no such conventions. Gimli grunts in dismissal—he’s professed before to find the whole mating dynamics of other species both ‘bizarre’ and ‘barbaric.’ Legolas only smiles indulgently.

Another time, Aragorn might pay Legolas a complement for just how tempting an omega he is—its no wonder that he attracts more than just elves. But now Aragorn has bigger concerns, and he asks to confirm, “Boromir is in heat? You are sure?”

Legolas nods in that knowing way of his. Aragorn trusts his judgment. One of the hobbits lets out a little noise, maybe a gasp of surprise, and Aragorn glances over his shoulder. He isn’t surprised to find Sam subtly sidling up protectively to Frodo. Merry and Pippin look awestruck, and Aragorn gets the distinct impression that he should remedy this situation before that look turns mischievous. 

After all, whether or not he’s claimed the throne, Aragorn is the rightful _king_ , and though he shies from the title, he doesn’t from his responsibilities. Boromir is his to care for. He announces, “I will take care of this.”

As he heads for the entrance, he can hear Gimli snorting, “Are dwarves the only sane creatures?”

“Dwarves don’t have heats?” Pippin asks, curious as ever.

“We don’t even have betas, let alone alphas or omegas! You just find someone you like, and—”

But what follows in the world of dwarves, Aragorn will have to hear another time; he’s swiftly walked out of earshot. 

It isn’t difficult to find where Boromir’s gone. Aragorn could sort through the tracks left by Gimli’s un-careful feet, but now that he’s away from the dueling pheromones of the others, he can smell his fellow man’s, thicker than ever with the distinct twist of _heat_ that Legolas so rightly guessed. As the only alpha on the quest, Aragorn thought this might come along, though he’d hoped it wouldn’t be during one of the periods Gandalf’s mysteriously gone for and there would be some wizarding remedy for it—they won’t always be lucky enough to be at peaceful rest during these times. At least it’s from Boromir—he wouldn’t want to have to treat the halflings so. But then, there are difficulties that come with it being _Boromir_ , too.

His own interest, for instance. It might be best to stay distant for this—simply a leader aiding his sick. It’s difficult to stay unattached when he catches a whiff of raw _musk_ , clear arousal, a beta out there _keening_ for it, and the image of his attractive friend behind his eyes. Aragorn doesn’t have to go far.

He finds Boromir hidden amongst a thick knot of trees, sitting in the dirt and ferns, curled in on himself with his knees to his chest. Though Aragorn tries to move silently, not wanting to startle him, Boromir’s head snaps up. An almost feral look twists his face, halting Aragorn in his tracks. Boromir growls, “Don’t come any closer.”

Aragorn nods in understanding and asks, no judgment in his voice, “Does Gondor have no herbs to repress such heat?”

Boromir nearly winces, then looks aside, muttering bitterly, “I forgot my pouch in Rivendell.” He pauses, as though expecting Aragorn to comment on the idiocy of this, though Aragorn knows full well that Boromir had far more important things on his mind. “But it matters not; I will manage.”

Aragorn isn’t so sure. He can sense, smell and nearly _taste_ , _feel_ , just how close Boromir is to the edge—how much he _needs_ release. He must’ve been keeping his distance and fighting it all day. Aragorn feels remiss for not noticing and slowly lowers to sit, not going anywhere until this is resolved. Boromir eyes him wearily but doesn’t send him away. Aragorn knows where this will have to go, if Boromir isn’t to withstand a crux of excruciating pain. It’ll delay the entire party several days, but more importantly, it’ll do Boromir no good. Still, it’s his choice, and Aragorn fights not to act on Boromir’s intoxicating scent. He muses, half to ease the tension with conversation and have to broach the inevitable subject, “I am surprised you would come to an elf before one of your own kind.”

Boromir looks sharply back at him. Wrinkling his nose a bit, Boromir grunts, “I did not intend to. I was... I was simply trying to ignore the urges, but to have... to have an omega like that so near to me...” He stops, shivering. He’s farther gone than Aragorn feared if he’s admitting a loss of control; that isn’t like Boromir at all. 

It leaves Aragorn no choice but to quietly offer, “I will help you, if you wish.”

Boromir winces again and growls fiercely, “I do not need an alpha’s pity fuck.”

Aragorn lifts his brow, correcting easily, “It would not be for pity.” Boromir looks skeptical, and Aragorn sucks in a breath, knowing this would’ve likely come out some time or another, and calmly shares, “I happen to find you very handsome. You are impressive, valiant and strong. I would be honored if you would lay with me.” He doesn’t mention, of course, that he feels this is his _responsibility_. It doesn’t matter. He _does_ like Boromir. 

Boromir still hesitates, though the fire in his eyes betrays his interest. Slowly, warily, he says, “I do not wish to be claimed.”

Easily enough, Aragorn answers, “Then I will not claim you. I offer the soothing of your heat and no more than you wish.”

Boromir still looks unnerved. But his eyes flicker up and down Aragorn’s body, clearly holding approval, _want_ , and hopefully he knows Aragorn well enough by now to trust that he would never ensnare someone to his pack against their will. He isn’t surprised that Boromir, so proud, an alpha among betas, wouldn’t wish to give himself away so easily. 

Finally, Boromir seems to decide that it’s worth it. He licks his lips, and he climbs to his feet, lumbering with the weight of his body’s lusts, to come and fall into Aragorn. He settles right into Aragorn’s lap, heavy and _hot_ , his skin burning beneath all his clothes. Aragorn clutches loosely at his sides but initiates nothing more. Boromir’s large hands lift to cup Aragorn’s face and brush into his tangled hair. Boromir tilts Aragorn’s head back, looks into Aragorn’s eyes, then dives down with such force that it would throw an omega to the ground. 

Aragorn, _hungry_ , surges back. He kisses Boromir with all his might, because he needs it to keep up; Boromir claws at him with sudden, frantic attention. Boromir thrusts his tongue forward and shoves right into Aragorn’s mouth, lapping up right away, forcing Aragorn to follow, to suck that tongue into submission and trace Boromir’s mouth right back. It gives Aragorn what he needs: the permission to let Boromir’s full pheromones roll into him, roaring to be heard. It drives him _wild_. It’s been so _long_. He’s tasted a few elves here and there, all omegas, none he could claim for fear of his mortality keeping them apart, and although he can’t claim Boromir now, he _wants to_. That’s the only thing that gives him a spark of pain: the thought that this might never happen again.

He’ll have to make this time count. He runs one hand up to fist in Boromir’s honey hair, tugging on the straight locks hard enough to hurt, but Boromir just grunts in arousal and bucks forward. His crotch is already tented, his bulging trousers dragging over Aragorn’s. Aragorn knows right away that he can go _hard_ with this one—making slow love would be an option, not a must—Boromir is already fierce, thick and _built_ , all broad shoulders and hardened muscles. His body is nothing like the lithe curves Aragorn’s used to holding, on the rare occasion when his arms aren’t _empty_ , and now he feels they’ve been empty too long. Boromir fits well into them. Boromir devours Aragorn’s mouth with a hunger that can’t be tamed.

He only stops to clutch at Aragorn’s hair and hiss, “I would have preferred to sink my cock into a ripe omega...” his hips rock hard into Aragorn’s, now steadily moving to a harsh rhythm, “but I would lie to say I do not admire you, too...”

Aragorn, one hand against Boromir’s skull and the other drifting down to squeeze his ass, purrs in response, “I regret I have only an alpha’s rear to offer you, but your cock is just as welcome in it.” Boromir’s eyes light up, growing wide, before he kisses Aragorn all the harder, and this time, Aragorn lets himself be pushed down. 

He hits the forest floor with a grunt quickly swallowed in Boromir’s mouth. Boromir seems intent on getting what he wants before Aragorn changes his mind. He doesn’t free Aragorn’s mouth again, but his hands wander, shifting down to Aragorn’s shoulders and running hard down his chest, stopping to squeeze here and there with avid fists that make Aragorn hiss in delight. Boromir shows no mercy, as the first coupling of a beta and alpha should be, and in _heat_ , no less; Aragorn can feel every bit of Boromir’s ardour.

When Boromir reaches the hem of Aragorn’s tunic, his hands slip beneath, tracing up Aragorn’s chest, taut and firm under Boromir’s calloused fingers. For a moment, Boromir seems to get lost there, and Aragorn uses the chance to bring one hand to the pocket of his trousers. He always carries a few trinkets, common remedies, and now he draws out a small vial of oil, meant for the treating of certain wounds. He finds one of Boromir’s hands and pulls it loose, tucking the vile into it. Boromir’s grip is so strong that Aragorn worries he’ll break it. 

Boromir stops just long enough to lift above Aragorn on hands and knees, their bodies still flush together. He asks, one hand already at the strings of Aragorn’s trousers, “You will let me have you?” His voice is husky, _needy_ , but laced with disbelief. Aragorn nods. 

His lips already feel kiss-swollen. He isn’t so young as his partner, though perhaps he’s the equivalent in that of his bloodline’s. He reaches to brush his knuckles along Boromir’s stubble and takes hold of Boromir’s chin, drawing him back down. Their mouths seal together. It feels so blissfully _right_ that Aragorn can’t believe he waited so long to suggest this, can’t believe he let it get so far. Boromir wrestles open Aragorn’s trousers and pushes them down his hips, Aragorn parting his legs to give more access to the hand that slips between them. 

Another time, Aragorn would have his partner touch his cock, particularly a beta, one broiling and ready _to please_ , but he reminds himself that Boromir isn’t his, and they don’t yet have that bond. He doesn’t need to demand his own pleasure. He can use his own hand when they’re done, on the off-chance Boromir’s cock alone doesn’t satisfy him, but Boromir doesn’t have that luxury. He rubs one finger, already slicked with oil, between Aragorn’s crack, while Aragorn’s hard cock juts into the coarse fabric of his trousers. They kiss right through it, until Boromir’s finger presses insistently at Aragorn’s hole, and Aragorn simultaneously tries to relax and will himself open. His body doesn’t prepare itself like an omega’s might, but he trusts Boromir and knows they’ll manage. Boromir pushes gently into him, only a little bit at a time, though Aragorn’s sure he must be dying for _more_. Boromir parts their lips to hang his head over Aragorn’s shoulder, muttering next to Aragorn’s ear, “I’ve never fucked an alpha before...”

“I’ve never been fucked by a beta,” Aragorn returns just as silkily. Boromir snorts and nips at his ear, and Aragorn turns back to return the favour and nip at Boromir’s cheek. It takes incredible restrain not to open his mouth and bite _hard_ , leave a nice, red mark to show that this man is _his_. Boromir transitions to two fingers, and there’s a spot of pain that Aragorn buries under his _want_ of Boromir. He knows this will be worth it. 

Aragorn has let omegas fuck him before—pretty elves that giggled at his openness, and begged in lewd voices to be _his_ , though he always retained his _no_. The same wall he normally feels—the repeated thought that he _can’t own this person_ —isn’t here. He knows, from only these few moments of holding one another, that he would take Boromir for his own in a heartbeat. Instead, he clutches at Boromir’s shoulders, sensing that they’re closer—Boromir, having stretched Aragorn wide, retracts his wet fingers. 

In a moment of his own dominance, Aragorn orders, “Slick your cock up.” He can feel Boromir nod beside him. He can hear the shuffling down of Boromir’s trousers and the squelch of more oil, likely the last of it, and then Boromir’s hands are under his knees, lifting them up. Aragorn lifts his legs to cling to Boromir’s sides. Then he pulls Boromir’s face back to look at him, their eyes lining up. Boromir presses between his cheeks, looking ready to burst. Aragorn hisses, “ _Now_.”

Boromir slams forward, crying out in ecstasy the second he’s inside, the first thrust enough for Aragorn to see stars. His head tosses back, mouth screaming. His body _burns_. He hadn’t had a chance to fully appreciate Boromir’s cock, and now he can feel just how _thick_ it is, easily as long as his own, sliding home one agonizing millimeter at a time. The oil eases the way somewhat, but Boromir still feels _huge_ , far bigger than any of the little omegas Aragorn’s let inside himself. And Boromir’s so heavy atop him, and the smell of his heat is maddening. Aragorn only realizes how tightly he’s digging into Boromir’s shoulders when Boromir lets out a grunt of pain. He releases immediately, lets Boromir slide to the finish, and then Aragorn _squeezes_ around it and tugs Boromir down. Their kiss stifles Boromir’s cry.

Boromir doesn’t wait to move. He can’t—he’s too far gone. Aragorn can feel it. Boromir pulls halfway out and shoves back inside, out again and back in, hard enough to slam Aragorn into the dirt, grinding and switching angles. A few thrusts in, he finds the right place, and Aragorn _roars_ into Boromir’s mouth, reaching down to clutch at Boromir’s ass and hold him there. Boromir rises against his hand only to stab into the same spot a second later. He sets a brutal pace and kisses Aragorn mercilessly, grabbing at Aragorn’s sides and arms and face. Aragorn returns as good as he gets. 

The sex is merciless. It’s more than just Boromir’s heat—there’s a feral _want_ in Aragorn that hasn’t had a chance to rear its head until now; he spares nothing and bites at Boromir’s lips, claws at Boromir’s sides, and thrusts eager hips back into him to devour his cock. Aragorn’s own shaft is trapped between their bodies, the pressure almost enough, the friction exquisite. He can tell Boromir doesn’t have the wherewithal to touch him properly, but if Boromir were _his_ , Aragorn would train him to, teach him to please his alpha as well as Aragorn would take care of him. For now, Aragorn lets Boromir ravish him. He lets Boromir take everything he needs. Boromir fucks like a dream.

Boromir seems nearly delirious with want. He kisses Aragorn hard, messy, and stops to bite along Aragorn’s chin, to lick at Aragorn’s ear and nuzzle into the side of his face, hips going the whole time. He murmurs in between, “So _handsome_ ,” and, “ _Fuck_ , so _hot_ ,” and once or twice, “ _Aragorn_.” He clutches to Aragorn’s body desperately, trembling like _he’s_ the one that’s wanted this all along, and then he admits, “Want you so much, _always_ wanted you, _ahhh_...” And then Aragorn grabs him to kiss again, because it’s too much to have them apart. 

Boromir lasts far too long for vulnerable forest sex, but then he peaks, and Aragorn can feel it coming. His arms tense around Boromir, holding him in so tight that it’s almost difficult to breathe, and Boromir comes with a _roar_. He screams against Aragorn’s lips and bursts inside Aragorn’s body, hips rushing fervently to pound it all out. The sight of his face twisted in ecstasy, the heat of his body, and the explosion of his heat, drags Aragorn along. He comes between them, painting both their tunics, and biting his teeth hard to hold back his cries. Boromir finishes before him, the bulk of it trapped inside but little rivulets leaking out along Boromir’s cock, down Aragorn’s thighs and onto the earth. Aragorn needs a moment just to breathe. 

Boromir does too. He slumps down, even as Aragorn’s still coming, even heavier without him supporting himself. Aragorn bears it. It takes a moment for Boromir to lift up again and pull himself out of Aragorn’s aching body, and then he lies down more in the dirt but still half sprawled across Aragorn’s chest. 

Aragorn leans over to kiss his forehead and asks, panting, “How are you?”

Boromir moans. His raging pheromones have simmered down, no longer cloying at Aragorn but now a faint, alluring call. Full of relief, Boromir sighs, “Boneless but splendid.” Aragorn smiles and reaches to tuck a stray, sweat-slicked bang off his forehead. 

Unfortunately, they can’t stay. It would’ve been better if they’d done this in Rivendell so they could enjoy the afterglow, but they were too late. Aragorn, the alpha, the leader, is first to force himself up and mutter, “We’d best return to the others.” But first he grabs a clump of leaves, attempting clumsily to wipe them both off. They’ll need to wash their clothes at first chance, but that’s nothing new. 

As Aragorn cleans his own mess off Boromir’s tunic, Boromir admits quietly, “I did not think an alpha would let me top.” Aragorn merely smiles, finished, and kisses Boromir’s cheek, pleased when Boromir lets him. Before he’s fully pulled back, Boromir murmurs, “I... I would not mind if you claimed me.”

Aragorn looks at him and can’t help but _smile_. It makes Aragorn’s chest constrict, his heart warm. He would love to say _yes_ now and bite his mark right onto Boromir’s neck, scent mark him and parade him back to Gondor as Aragorn’s prince. Instead, Aragorn says, “Think on this when your heat has passed more. If you still wish me then, I will be honoured to have you.” Boromir nods. He looks like he might argue but knows Aragorn too well. 

So he just asks, “May we share bedrolls tonight?”

That, Aragorn can do. He smiles and takes Boromir’s hand, squeezing it for assurance—he’ll happily field any relapses. In the meantime, he tugs Boromir up, and they climb to their feet. Aragorn leads Boromir back to camp, where things don’t seem as dark as they once did.


End file.
